The Fontaine
by fantasticbs
Summary: QW14! Day Seven: AU In the 30s/40s, fictional town. Quinn is the wife of a club owner who just booked a new act lead by a sultry singer. Trigger Warnings - Racial Slurs/Strife, Domestic Abuse (sorry, but I swear it's not all bad) Multi-chapter
1. Chapter 1

My merlot is set on the table the moment I sit down and I nod in gratitude for the service. I need not do anything. Frank owns The Fontaine after all, and though I loathe coming here, there are some perks to being Frank Semper's wife - wine at the ready is one of them.

I listen to the faint horns as a gentleman comes to light my cigarette and quietly ponder how long I'll have to stay. Frank says it's good for the business - that people like to see a fine, church-going woman out on the town enjoying herself. In reality, he just wants me to cosign on his debaucherous club that's been serving 80 proof liquor since well before Prohibition ended.

My father would disown me were he still living, but pehaps I wouldn't be in this dim and smoky club had his breath not stopped 10 years ago. My mother wasn't sure how she'd manage with all five of us children, when lo and behold, Frank Semper, a known businessman about town, showed up at our door step to ask about me. My mother was appropriately affronted at first, after all, I was just 15, and Frank, though successful, had been rumored to run with a certain crowd, but conversations held in back rooms slowly lessened her concern and soon I was dressed all in white, a child bride at only 16.

Turns out Frank had been watching me for a while. The way he tells it, you'd think eye-ballin a 13 year old while she plays hop scotch were a romantic thing. It was to him I suppose. He said he could always tell how beautiful I would become and that he knew that if he didn't swoop in to 'save' me upon my father's demise that someone else would.

I never felt saved.

The only thing that kept me from running away those first few years was seeing the shine on my little brothers' shoes, the pretty lavender dresses my sisters wore to church on Sunday, the hardwood of the floors at the school I insisted they be transferred to on Frank's dime.

And he obliged me. Everywhere we went he got compliments on his 'gorgeous, young' wife, on what a fine couple we made. I could see it in their eyes sometimes, the women, they knew it was wrong, but their husbands would nudge them and right as rain, a flattering comment would be thrown Frank's way about his pretty wife.

After a while, I settled into my role. I saw my siblings graduate, every one, and the boys went off to college. My sisters weren't as fortunate, but at least they could choose their husbands and I was mightly pleased when eyes that had so often grazed over me lecherously, looked away disappointed when trying to speak to my sisters. I taught them that, even as I couldn't set the example myself.

I stumble out of my thoughts as Frank and his best friend, James, push into the booth beside me. The pungent odor of Scotch wafts off of their skin and I turn into the furl of smoke twisting off my cigarette. It does me little good when Frank leans in to plant a sloppy kiss on my cheek.

James tips his hat my way. "Quinn, you look beautiful as ever."

"Thank you, James." I barely glance his way, trying to contain my irritation. "Frank, how much longer do I have to sit here? I'd like to get home to rest for the church festival tomorrow."

"Don't get your panties in a bunch, Quinnie! I've got a new performer I want you to see." He plants another wet kiss on my cheek and scoots to sit closer, while I near the edge of the booth.

I scoff. "Please tell me it's not another magician. That last fella had to be rushed to the emergency room."

"A singer this time and I think she's going to make this place a lot of money." Frank is rarely this excited, so a strange curiosity strikes me.

"Well, when's she going to be on?"

"Not fifteen minutes, sweetheart. You even have time to powder your nose."

It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes at Frank's annoying code-speak for 'leave the table', but I get up nonetheless and pass Frank's disgusting associate, Timmy Slim, named ironically for his girth. I'm just happy not to be squeezed in between the two of them.

Making my way to the lavatory, I'm reminded of just how ornate this place really is. Gold chandeliers hang above the table settings. The booths sit a level up for the high rollers and there's even a balcony for those here just to see the show. Gloved hands reach out to assist me up the stairs as I reach the side hall where the smaller, less popular Ladies room is nestled.

I have no need to use the toilet and breaking free from this dress just to pass the time seems silly, so I seat myself in the powder room and take out a pocket mirror to check that my hair is in place.

Just as I'm noticing a scrape along my neck, probably from Frank's 'affections', a woman comes racing in and up to the mirror. A black woman. Or is she black? I'm not sure, but either way, she's distractingly good looking.

She tosses her small leather bag down and opens it quickly, pulling out make up and hair brushes and placing them to the left and to the right. I'm a little taken aback to be honest. If she weren't so stunning I would have said something immediately, but because my eyes have lingered on her in the vanity, I miss my opportunity to slow her unpacking. She's finished emptying it out by the time I find my voice.

"Miss, I don't think this is where you're supposed to be." It bothers me to say it, but I can't bear the thought of someone else finding her here and saying so much worse.

She continues with her ministrations, barely shifting her eyes to see me in the mirror's reflection. She smooths a dark red onto her lips. It's a beautiful shade.

"Ain't that the truth! I'm supposed to be in Chicago on the Chitlin Circuit, but these fools insisted we stop at a few places down South. What town is this anyway?"

I'm thrown by her misinterpretation, but something in the way she speeds up her movements as she talks makes me think she misinterpreted nothing. "Bartlett. Bartlett, Tennessee. Pardon, but I think you misunderst-"

"Tennessee! Well, at least that means we're headed North. I need to stop sleeping through these road trips." She races to the opening of the stalls and quickly squats to check for feet. I assume she finds none because her next move is to the door, which she shuts and locks it.

I clutch my purse to my side and stand. She smirks at me for it.

"I hope you don't mind, but we've got all the same parts, right?" And without further preamble, she slinks out of the frock she was wearing and unsnaps the side of her bag to pull out a shimmery gold dress - if you can call it that. It's shorter than any I've seen and as she throws it on, I notice it barely grazes her mid-thigh.

She looks like a showgirl from one of those Paris postcards the men pass around. My thoughts must bleed through to my facial expression because she winks.

"Gotta push the limits these days! Crowds can get rowdy without something to focus on."

I unconsciously stretch the hem of my dress further past my knees in silence.

"Bet you'd look grand in a thing like this." She's back to her make up, leaning in close to apply her eyeliner.

"I...I'd never consider it." It's as though my father has possessed me. "It isn't proper."

"Proper or not, you'd look grand." She stops and looks back at me as though to confirm her opinion, and with a glance up and down, she nods. "No harm in trying something new, time to time."

Bang. Bang. Bang.

"Santana! Santana, get your bony ass out here, now. We're supposed to be on!"

She smiles at me, like her lateness is a shared secret between us and then she's shoving all her things back into the bag as quickly as she can.

I begin to help her for some reason. I hadn't noticed I was even moving towards her, but that smile, it was so magnetic. I grab her frock from the floor and stuff it into the side pouch and she snaps it shut, before leaning into me and kissing my cheek.

"You're a gem! Hope you like the show!"

With that she unlocks the door and races out and I find my hand tracing my cheek where her lips just were as I stare at my reflection. I only have a moment before the announcer's voice can be heard booming through the club.

"AND NOW COMING TO THE STAGE, ISIS OF THE NILE!"

I find myself scurrying back to our booth. Slim is packed into my seat still, his gut halved by the tabletop, so I slide in beside James. I turn my back to him almost immediately to fully face the stage, which remains dark.

The piano begins to play and a single spotlight shines down making all the sparkles on her dress come to life simultaneously. It would seem she has no need to even sing, the way the eyes in the room all fall upon her in rapt attention, but when she does, the air becomes thick and heady. Her voice contradicts her slight stature. Her smooth skin. It's raspy and strong.

I can't imagine looking away. She works the room, leaving the stage to slowly approach each table as she croons. The men are dazzled and the women, charmed – somehow she makes it clear that she is just performing, that she has no interest in their husbands or beaus, while still making them feel special for a moment. She ends the song with a hand on the naked shoulder of a woman, solidifying that point.

The band falters for a second, not automatically moving on to the next song and she turns to them, signalling with a twist of her wrist. Her pianist shakes his head at the bassist and they both chuckle to themselves, starting up the next song as she begins to mount the steps to the booth landing.

I slowly recognize the song as 'Sophisticated Lady' and she glides from booth to booth, pausing to sing a line or two to the inhabitants. She addresses the abandoned floor for a moment, although they seemed absolutely content with her backside, some too content.

She finally makes her way to our table and it almost makes me gag to see her run a perfectly manicured finger along, Timmy Slim's fat chin. She smiles with a wink for Frank and he beams with pride in a way I've seen only once before – waiting for me beside a priest at the alter.

He looks at her like she is his.

James elbows him approvingly. For some reason I can't bear to see it and I look back towards the stage to focus on the saxophone solo, but my view is quickly eclipsed by gold and I look up to see her nudging me to scoot over. James has already made the space having never looked away. She slinks in beside me with ease, as my body becomes opposingly rigid. She leans forward into my space to grab James' highball and take a healthy sip. The crowd laughs and I realize it must be a part of her routine, having no time to comprehend anything but the nearness of her.

She leans back over me to return the bourbon, this time bringing our faces inches apart. Her dark eyes look me over in those split seconds, as liquored breath pillows against my lips, sweet and buttery. She curls a lock of my hair behind my ear. Slowly. Like the solo isn't almost over, like she has all the time in the world.

She doesn't though, and I feel a hand press into my thigh instead of the leather of the seat as she scoots out of the booth with a grace that belies her speed, slipping back into the song right on time.

The show goes uptempo for a while and slows down, then uptempo again, but throughout, eyes remain fixed on wherever she has placed herself about the room. When she finally curtesies, with a hint of sarcasm, the people stand and clap uproariously. She curtesies once more and then steps back into the shadows behind the curtain.

Tables talk animatedly and raise glasses as the house band strikes up some ambient music. Several gentleman sweep by our table to tip their hats at Frank on their way out and it occurs to me that my earlier assessment of Frank's look may not have been incorrect.

Eventually, their adoration isn't enough, he needs mine. "What did you think, Quinnie?!"

I prefer not to give him the satisfaction. "I think I'm well past the age for you to call me Quinnie." I shrug into my next sip of wine. "I liked the band."

"The band?! Those fellas are a dime a dozen. The girl? What did you think about the girl?!"

"What does it matter, Frank? Seems like the crowd was pleased enough with her."

"They were amazed! Slim says they sold out of champagne! I'm signing a contract with that girl's manager tonight! She's going to be my headlining act! We'll have to change the name of course, but none of that matters."

"What makes you think she'd want to perform in rinky dink, Bartlett for more than a night?"

I know I shouldn't have said it, but something about...Santana -that was her name- something about Santana being stuck here was unbearable. The way he looked at her.

His voice takes on an edge I'm familiar with.

"It doesn't matter what she wants, Quinn. It matters what I want and I want her here. Isn't it time you said hello to the ladies in the powder room?"

I down the last of my merlot and stand up abruptly.

Slim speaks above the din. "You're still my favorite girl, Quinn. Niggers are just for looking."

Frank punches him playfully. "Quinn's just for looking too, ya punk!" James seems uncomfortable and winces at me sympathetically.

I reach down and grab my gloves and purse and raise a finger to signal them to grab my coat.

"I think I've made a long enough appearance for tonight."

"Put your things down, Quinn. You'll leave when I'm ready." He motions my coat away and I know it's because I've ruined his fun, told him not to call me Quinnie. I stare him down, but it only takes a few seconds before I'm dropping my gloves back into the booth.

Frank's one of those men who for all public appearances seems to adore me, but when we're just with his friends or worse, alone, it's very clear that I'm just something else that he owns and if I can't make it to church or a few events due to a 'fever' then so be it, as long as I remember who is in control. Bruises heal. Cuts close. My brothers go to the best universities in the US.

I will have some satisfaction though. I set my glare on Timmy.

"My sister wanted me to tell you her boyfriend loved the chocolates you sent, Slim."

Timmy coughs on his drink. Frank and James laugh and point as he wipes away his spittle. I turn and walk towards the bathroom once more, fuming.

I grab at the door, but it's locked and I can guess why.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

"I said I'd be just another minute, Tom! Jesus! You got a girl back at the motel or sumthin?!"

"It's not Tom."

After a moment, the metal clicks and the door opens. She lets me in but quickly locks the door behind us, before returning to the mirror and wiping at some of her thicker make up. She's still in the gold dress and I only have a moment to wonder why that makes my heart jump before she turns to me with a now familiar grin.

"So, that's your fella? Turned into the green-eyed monster for a second there! Didn't mean to make you jealous." She's teasing, but the idea that I would ever be jealous regarding Frank is beyond laughable – it's offensive.

"Jealous?! I don't know what ever you mean."

"Oh, come on! No one watches Fepper."

I quirk a brow, confused.

"Jonathan Fepper, the saxophonist, I would have thought you had collected his name, the way you ignored me to take in his pathetic ad libbing. Pretty lady like you, he wouldn't know what to do with himself if you smiled his way." Santana chuckles to herself, but I can't get past the idea that she thought I was jealous.

"I was simply trying to keep my dinner down."

"And what's that supposed to mean?! Hey, look, maybe you took that the wrong way earlier. I ain't got any kind of interest in your man. Quite the opposite in that matter of concern."

"No, you took it the wrong way." My need to deny him is so strong that I can't control my mouth. "I may be married to Frank, but that is surely not by choice."

In all my years of being trapped with him I've never uttered such words outside of our home and never once without a resounding slap to follow.

The ladies at church, they know how to shut down an outburst like that before you even think to form it – complimenting a man for leading his flock, reemphasizing the obedience of the wife at all times, letting the silence stretch after he makes a scene instead of comforting you. They'll tell you their ages-old secret recipe for pie crust, but it is clear they expect you to clean all the stains of your dirty laundry alone, even the bloody ones.

Santana is surprised, but not overly so.

"And here I was singing Sophisticated Lady to you. I had no idea it could ring so true."

Unlike her, I find this whole interaction startling. "You sang that to me?"

"Well, to who else? A lady, fine as yourself, doesn't spend time alone in the powder room less she ain't got no reason to return to her seat." She laughs to herself. "My band almost abandoned me for continuing to look for you well past when I was supposed to be back on stage. Pardon me then, that I did take some offense to you staring at Fepper with me right beside you."

I try to find my bearings, try to reign in this comfort she fosters. "Well that was very presumptuous of you."

"If not accurate." Again, she seems to brush off my brittle behavior. "So, tell me, how's a girl like you get married to...what's his name, Frank? - if not by choice?"

I hear a group of ladies try the door a few times and complain to each other before leaving. It reminds me of the outside world on a number of fronts.

"That's none of your business. I've shared too much as it is and you don't belong in this bathroom."

Santana tosses her smeared face cloth into the trash hastily, but doesn't lose her jovial tone. "You white people are all the same. It's fine to have me sing to you for hours, but dare I share a vanity and suddenly I'm gonna snatch your purse!" She fakes a move as if to grab it and I flinch. Her grin widens and then fades away altogether, replaced with dissapointment. "If it's all the same to you, I just need a place to change back dresses. The mop closet they offered me is flooded and I won't change amongst the men."

She sounds so weary and guilt presses into my lungs for stooping so low.

"I didn't...I didn't mean that. It's just, people around here, they..."

Just then there is a faint knock and both our eyes dart to the door.

I walk over and unclasp the lock, barely opening it far enough to see out and am met with a familiar face. Walter, the floor manager.

"Oh, it's you, Mrs. Semper. Some ladies asked that we unlock the bathroom."

"Walter, I'm in the middle of something with a girlfriend here and we'd like to keep the space locked. Would you mind putting up a sign to direct them to the other lavatories?"

"Yes, mam. Not a problem, mam."

I close the door and put the lock back in place.

"Thank you." Santana chews her lip, but won't look at me. "There's no need for the sign though. My manager will be around soon enough. He was harrassing me just before you arrived."

"I gathered that." I wait for her eyes to reach mine. "He likely won't be by for a while though. My husband was so enchanted by your performance that he'd like to sign you to a long-term contract tonight."

Santana's eyes take on a fiery intensity.

"What?! I mean no offense to your husband, though it seems you wouldn't take any, but I'm on my way to Chicago. I can't stay in...where are we again?"

"Bartlett, Tennessee."

"I can't stay here." She sits on the upholstered bench and runs her hands through her hair in aggravation, loosening the waves.

I sit beside her cautiously. "Don't you have any say?"

"Where I sing is akin to where you sleep, Mrs. Semper."

"Quinn."

She glances at me now and self-consciously wipes at the last streaks of her mascara.

"Santana"

We sit in silence for awhile, before the banging starts again.

"Santana! Hurry on up, now! I got good news for the whole band!"

She takes a deep breath beside me, exhaling as she stands and slinks out of her gold dress. I watch her walk. I stare at the skin she's revealed.

Something about our shared lack of control has made this evening more intimate than it should be between two strangers in a powder room.

She places the last of her things into the bag, then turns back my way to retrieve her dress. I pick it up from the floor to save her the bending and raise it between us, holding onto it for a second longer when she tries to take it.

"I'm very sorry you won't be going to Chicago."

She meets my eyes and I can see that she believes what I have said. "I'm sorry your marriage isn't what a girl dreams."

I release the dress and she shakes her head at our circumstances before walking to the door and unlatching the lock. Just before she opens it, I feel compelled to correct one inaccuracy.

"I'm no sophisticated lady, Santana. That would require love lost and I've never found it."

She glances back at me sadly. "I guess I'll have to sing you another song then."

She's out the door and I'm left alone.


	2. Chapter 2

The next few weeks are a flurry of activity. Frank changes the group name to 'Santana Lopez and the Blue Notes' and the marquee lights up to reflect that, along with the subheading, 'Tempting! Exotic! Fantasy!'. I cringe a little everytime we drive by it.

He's invested in all new costumes, dancers and even set pieces to make the The Fontaine not just the premier night club in Bartlett, but all of Tennessee. Santana has yet to grace the stage since her debut and there is a growing clamor to gain entry to her opening night.

One place they aren't clamoring to get tickets is our church.

Several conversations quiet as I take my seat beside Judy and Fran. Fran touches my arm briefly and though I was fairly sure I had been the topic of choice, this confirms it. Mrs. Summers, the undisputed group mouthpiece, turns directly towards me, but speaks for all of them to hear.

"Quinn, these developments at The Fontaine are quite concerning. The negress, or whatever she is, that Frank is pushing on this community, with her wanton sexuality and immoral performances are not what Bartlett needs . Julia Rankin is a fine performer, " Mrs. Summers waves her hand towards Julia's bird like frame in the corner. She's as dismayed being referenced now as we were watching her sing amateur night. "I don't understand why your husband can't use our local talent."

She says _your husband_, but she clearly means why can't _I _make him. It's a little amusing coming from the woman who moved to the other side of the room the day Frank dragged me from the veteran's soup kitchen because he thought the amputees' eyes lingered too long.

"Mrs. Summers, surely you know that I do not mix in my husband's affairs. I am but a sheep, and he, my shepherd." I enjoy the irony in repurposing Mrs. Summers' oft repeated words.

"While we must all practice obedience, it has been said that you were there the night of her first performance, that she even sat beside you. You do understand what kind of position this puts us in as a charitable Christian organization? To have our biggest funder mingling with half-breeds and approving of their distasteful entertainment."

I've had to bite my tongue on more occasions than I can count to participate in the good works this organization chairs in spite of themselves, but this is further than I've ever been pushed. I take a deep breath to calm myself.

"I was merely in attendance to support my husband's ventures."

"We can understand that our husbands sometimes make trying decisions, but for us to continue with you as Secretary, we would need a commitment that you will not attend anymore of her performances."

"I will do my best to avoid The Fontaine."

"It isn't The Fontaine you must avoid, Mrs. Semper, but rather, that heathen woman. Your husband would be wise to do the same."

I'm disappointed to feel the support of Judy and Fran fall away. While they share my distaste for the older women's archaic ideas in some respects, they seem to be in agreement about Santana.

Perhaps it's strange that I am not.

My mother would call it my 'sympathetic nature', but it has never been as complex as that. People were people in my mind and I didn't understand how someone could say otherwise.

Mrs. Summers was accustomed to having the last word and she turned her body away from me to signify it had been said. Genevieve struck the gavel at the front of the hall and the meeting was called to order.

I took notes absently.

Why was I bending to their will? Why did I care about being in this ridiculous organization? The answers flooded my mind even as I wished they weren't true – because it was the only escape I had. Because it made the time pass more quickly, to plan festivals and holiday plays. Because it gave me an excuse to tell Frank 'No' from time to time. Lord, even this endless chit chatter was better than the droning silence of my life slipping away in that house.

Santana would leave Bartlett someday. I couldn't sacrifice myself for her.

I wonder that the thought had even occurred to me.

We're seated at the table closest to the stage with coffee and tea served. It isn't long before Santana makes her way out. She walks down the steps from the stage and reaches out to shake my hand.

Frank is his usual brash self. "Santana, I'd like you to meet my beautiful wife, Quinn Semper." It's still jarring not to hear 'Fabray' even after all these years. More jarring is the fact that I hadn't thought through this .

Santana had. "Mrs. Semper, it is so very nice to finally meet you. Mr. Semper is constantly singing your praises."

Frank smiles with overenthusiasm. "My two favorite girls in one place!" Santana looks between us, unsure, at being thrown in with the man's wife. As usual, Frank is too obtuse to notice. "Santana, I've asked Quinn to come today to look over the costume ideas. She is an upstanding member of the church community and a woman of decorum, so I knew she could be of assistance."

I hadn't told Frank about the mandate. It was the type of argument I only wanted to get into once and this midday request wasn't worth it. No one would even know I was here.

"Should she come back to the dressing room?" Santana reaches out as if to guide me.

"Oh, no, no, I think it would be best for us to see you in the costumes on the stage." Frank pulls the empty chair beside him to face the stage directly. "Quinn, if you wouldn't mind sitting here. And Santana, I believe Tom has the costumes in the back."

Santana walks backstage and minutes later she walks out, somewhat apprehensively.

"Ahhh, the ivory number! It looks magnificent!" Frank exclaims.

Santana has on what would appear to be a white bathing suit with white feathers, gold baubles and crystals accenting her hips and shoulders.

It makes her gold dress look demure. I swallow.

Frank continues excitedly. "We've got these 10 foot feathers that the dancers will open to reveal her, Quinn. It's perfect! Absolutely perfect!"

Santana looks down at herself and then back out to us. "Perhaps this is a bit more progressive than Bartlett is prepared to handle?" Her focus is on me. On my obvious concern.

I put my hand on Frank's, a persuasive tool I save for such occasions. "Frank, this is...I can see her entire thigh. We're not at a swimming hole."

"Exactly! This is what all the big acts are doing. Turn for us, will you, Santana." She does so and we see tailfeathers appliqued to her backside and more skin. "The men will go wild!"

"Yes, and the women will reach for their purses. Frank, this costume is highly inappropriate."

"But is she not the most attractive woman you've ever seen, Quinn? Aside from yourself of course. Tom! Tom, bring out the headdress!" Tom comes out from the shadows with a large headdress of the same materials. "It requires her to put her hair up, but imagine that, Quinn! Imagine this gorgeous woman with a headdress!"

I can hear Mrs. Summers ranting in my head and I know it is only a matter of time before I will hear it in real life.

Frank has worked himself up into a lustful state and I dare not glance at his pants. Santana seems a little overwhelmed and though she presents to have an unending well of confidence, something fearful casts a shadow on her gracious smile.

I'm overstimulated to say the least. "Santana is a very beautiful woman, yes, but honey. " I don't know that I've ever called him that. "Honey, don't you think she's right about what an audience here can handle. Maybe in a few years -"

"That's just it, Quinn! The Fontaine. Santana. We're going to put Bartlett on the map. I can appreciate your sensibilities but I'm a business man and it's time for a new destination city in Tennessee." He turns back to the stage. "Tom, get her in the next one."

Santana glances at me furtively before heading backstage. As more and more outfits come out, I realize I wasn't invited here to help, or perhaps just not in the way suggested. It's clear that Frank has already seen all of the costumes, on Santana no less, and he has no intention of taking any of my criticisms seriously. After the fifth outfit, Frank lays a heavy hand on my thigh and a thin layer of sweat begins to gather into streaks along his neck.

"Frank, the Ladies have asked that I not attend any more of Santana's performances. They feel it is a conflict of interest."

Frank pulls at his collar. "How you spend your time is none of their business and I will have you at every performance I wish you to be at."

"It's not that simple, they have threatened to strip me of my position. To deny our contributions." It was only a slight exaggeration.

"And who will fix their leaky roof? Jesus?" Frank yanks at his collar again, but with more anger. "You tell those broads that they can take their ultimatums and shove them where the sun don't shine, Quinn. You tell them my wife, MY WIFE, goes where I please, when I please." He tosses his napkin on the table in distaste. "Is this because she's a nigger? I'm not even sure she is, but she's got some of that blood. Ain't no denying. Your church ladies decry your attendance because she's a nigger?"

Santana steps out as the question is asked of me and I look down in shame. She stands with arms limp at her sides looking between us, but Frank has lost his focus.

"Is it?!" He glares at me.

"They do not like her complexion is my best guess, no." I chew the inside of my cheek.

He looks to the stage now, ponders for a moment, before rising abruptly and jumping the stairs to stand before her. She takes a step back, but not so far as to further anger him. He turns to me as he grabs at her elbow to pull her towards the front edge of the stage, more directly under the lights.

I look into Santana's eyes and see her fear as easily as the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

"What _your Ladies_ don't understand is that nigger or not, people want to see her. They want to see her because it's wrong. It's all wrong – that she sings so much better, that she moves so much better, that she can make men who swore they hated niggers dream of no one else."

His grip has tightened and Santana begins to wince. I had hoped that the argument would end whatever sick scenario he had decided to indulge in today, but it served only to lay it bare. He stood before me grasping Santana like a caveman.

"I think you're hurting her." I say it calmly. Hysteria is not effective on Frank.

He turned to look at Santana, releasing her arm quickly, like it should be forgotten as fast. She looked down, but his stare remained on her.

He lifted her chin with his finger, her eyes only meeting his when keeping them downcast would have shown far too much effort.

"You will make me more money than this town has ever seen." He turned to me, his tone preachy. "There is no greater temptation than that of the forbidden fruit."

I was relatively silent for the rest of the afternoon, as we drove from one place to the next, stopping to see Timmy and James at their respective haunts, picking up a few things at Coles's, sitting through a long dinner with Frank's uncle and his wife.

We walked into the house quietly, but for our footsteps, the tossing of a coat, the unclasping of a watch. I felt exhausted pulling off my heels, letting my toes sink into the rug.

I didn't hear him come out of the bathroom. I was thinking about how limp her arms were. How uncharacteristically fragile she looked. The next breath I took had to be sucked through the duvet with all my might.

I wish I could say that I fought him, that I punched and slapped and tore at his eyes, but that wasn't the nature of our relationship. I had tried all those ideas years ago and it never made much of a difference in the result.

The first time it happened, I ran all the way to my mother's house in the dead of night. She traced a finger over my busted lip sorrowfully, but met my eyes with a gentle smile before telling me that men were a 'rough and tumble sort' and that I should try to be more pleasing.

Frank was waiting for me in the car the next morning.

Walter knew all about the comings and goings of the club and without asking why, he told me which motel Santana was staying in.

I knock hesitantly. I had never been to this part of town.

Her sweater is a striking canary yellow and I focus on it rather than her confused expression as she opens the door.

"What a beautiful color. Is it cashmere?"

She just stares at me for a moment. "Mrs. Semper, wh-"

"Quinn." I interrupt.

"Quinn, what are you doing here?"

I know what I want to talk about, but I hadn't quite thought through how we would get there. I open and close my mouth a few times. Santana leans forward to look left and right down the open corridor before grasping my elbow to pull me into the room.

She shuts the door behind us and I take in her accomodations. A bed. A small desk with a chair. A love seat. A coffee table. A tiny curio of glasses with a bar top. It makes me wonder how much Tom and in turn, Santana, is being paid to stay here in Bartlett.

I make my way to the love seat and sit. Santana pulls the chair out from under the desk and places it across from me before doing the same.

"I, ehem, I'm very sorry for what occurred at the Fontaine. Frank...he...his behavior was unacceptable. I will make sure it doesn't happen again."

Santana pushes her hair behind her shoulder, the veins in her neck define themselves into light lines. She doesn't want to look at me and the movement is exaggerated to hide that fact. She sighs. "Your husband's behavior is not your own."

"Yes, but that whole event. He clearly had no intention of listening to me. It was as if I was there to-"

She doesn't hesitate. "You were there to fulfill a fantasy."

Said so plainly, my mouth dries.

"Don't act so surprised. You know it as well as I."

I quietly respond. "I do."

She watches me for a moment, carefully.

"Would you like a drink, Quinn?"

She stands and approaches a bottle on the bar top, pouring two glasses, even as I mutter a polite 'no thank you'. She places mine on the coffee table in front of me and I smile graciously.

She sits back in her chair and waits for me to pick up my cup which I do quickly, upon recognizing the expectation, and then she raises her glass in the air. "To women."

I nod in agreement and take a sip before coughing harshly. She chuckles.

"Bourbon isn't for everyone I guess."

I cough a few more times. "No, no, it's good." I smile.

She smirks, curious. "I think you're too skilled at suffering through what you don't like."

I don't respond, placing the glass back onto the table instead.

"How did you find me?"

"Walter."

"How did you get here?"

"Paid fare."

"He's waiting outside?"

"He is."

"How long did you tell him you'd be?"

"I didn't say."

She takes a long sip of the brown liquid.

She's every bit as beautiful in an ordinary room as she is on the stage. Stunning really. It reminds me of why I came here in some perverse way. "Did he...has he..."

She tires of my floundering. "Has your husband pushed himself on me?"

I exhale heavily and nod.

"No." She sighs in relief, or was that me. "I'm not saying he wouldn't try, but he hasn't had the opportunity. I make sure to keep the guys in the band around. Tom is useless." She backhands the air with the flick of her wrist, annoyed "If I didn't know better, I'd think he added sleeping with the owners to the bottom of my contracts." She takes another sip and laughs.

"It's not funny." I don't know how she can be so casual about this. My disgusting husband has targeted her for sexual assault and if anyone knows he's capable of it, it's me.

"No, it's not, but he isn't the first and my guess is he won't be the last."

"What do you mean?"

She takes a long breath. "Quinn, in my line of work, you're paid to be desirable. Sometimes people confuse the performance with reality. They think I exist for them alone. Especially the ones who pay me. Frank is not so unusual in that sense."

I'm puzzled by her nonchalance. "So you're saying this has happened to you before, that you expect it?"

"It doesn't mean I allow anything to happen that will harm me." I think back to that moment on the stage and Santana knows it. "Had I known what that was really about, I would have invited Fepper or Hank. I'm not saying I haven't gotten into some sticky situations over the years, but somehow I've always made it out."

I can't meet her eyes. My thoughts have wandered to how similar our circumstances are and yet, Santana has managed to protect herself and I can't seem to do the same. It would be funny if it weren't so horrific. I'm here offering protection to her as if I have any to give.

"Mrs. Semper, y-"

"Quinn." I interrupt. "Don't...please don't call me that."

"Quinn." She says it reassuringly. "I appreciate your concern, even your apology, but you don't have to worry about me. I'm sorry you came all this way because you thought I had been hurt."

"It's no trouble. I...I thought he had...I..." My hand trembles and I put the glass down to make it less visible, but I'm too late.

Her tone is sharp, precision thin. "What has he done to you?"

"It's nothing." I grab at my purse and rise. "I must be going."

She stands too and tries to calm me. "Quinn, it's nothing to be ashamed of, if he's hurt you."

"I've overstayed my welcome." I breeze past her. "I'll just be going." I open and shut the door before she can utter another word.

I see her in the doorway watching as we pull off.

The yellow really is a beautiful color on her.


	3. Chapter 3

Frank speaks through the steak he's chewing.

"Heard you went on a little excursion."

We sit on opposite ends of the table, four chairs between us on either side. I'm glad for the distance. I meet his eyes, but don't respond.

He points his fork at me, wagging it a few times. "What did the two of you talk about anyway? I can't imagine you'd have much in common." His calm is false.

"She had admired the scarf I wore the other day and I thought I would lend it to her. It must be difficult to relocate unexpectedly and not know anyone."

"Kind of you to take such an interest in a showgirl, particularly after _the Ladies_ have forbidden you even seeing her perform." He stabs at his peas.

"I did not say that I agreed with them. I simply stated their terms."

He savors his next bite of steak, moaning in appreciation, knowing that I am uncomfortable with the stall in the conversation. He rests hardened eyes on me after clearing his throat.

"I don't take you for a fool, Quinn and I should hope you don't take me for one."

Dining on a baked potato myself, the dull edge of my butter knife gleams beside me – a joke.

"I wish you would speak plainly then."

He smiles, a malicious twinkle in his eyes. "Oh, this is better than I imagined. You don't even know."

"Know what?"

"What a bore it is to simply tell you." He runs his tongue over his teeth and throughout his mouth, again testing my patience. "I thought perhaps your rendevous had yielded some promising result."

My fist tightens under the table. "Maybe I am a fool because I don't understand a thing you're saying."

He wipes at his mouth and smiles, that evil grin of his. "Well I hoped you had found out for yourself. Tom tells me Santana is a lesbian. She prefers women."

"What?"

"One of those industry secrets – can't have the fellas thinking they don't have a chance with her. Not that they'd ever believe it, woman like her. Hell, I don't believe it."

A few of Santana's words ring in my ears, that kiss. But it was harmless, all of it. Surely he is just amusing himself. He wiggles his eye brows. "So did she, you know, did she try to make a move?"

I'm appalled, and that fact makes him laugh obnoxiously. "They say it is more common in women. Would you agree, Quinn?"

It's coming together now in my mind, not her behavior, but his.

"That's why you had her try on all those costumes. To watch us?"

His knife saws into his steak once more, causing the blood to leak out into a pool on his plate. "And I wasn't disappointed."

"You're sick, you know that, Frank. You're a sick, sadistic bastard!"

He drops his fork and knife and stands. I press my spine into the back of my seat staring straight ahead as he stalks toward me. He leans down to speak directly into my ear.

"What would your church ladies think if they knew you went to her motel, Quinnie? Uninvited no less?"

I turn to look at him. "You wouldn't dare."

He stands upright and toys with his cufflinks walking behind me. "Why wouldn't I? You know, Quinn, I thought about it and I don't have a need for church support anymore. The city ordinances have long since been passed and the tides are changing. Religion isn't king. You know what is? You know _what is _king_,_ my darling wife?" He bangs the table and I jump despite myself. "The mighty dollar! And I have more of those than anyone in this town."

I don't understand how he can be so cruel. I should, after all he's done, but I really don't understand. "You would take the one thing I have for myself? Why?!" I shake my head, bewildered and on the verge of tears. "What more do you want from me? You have everything!"

He's back behind me the moment I say it, hands instantaneously coarse against my neck and shoulders, as though his trap is finally sprung.

"I _want _her." He slides his hand under my blouse, grates his fingertips over my breasts and leans forward, his lips grazing my cheek. "I want her too."

I turn away, trying to remove his hands, but he tightens his arm over my entire chest pulling me up against the back of the chair roughly.

His breath is hot in my ear once more. "Don't play coy, Quinn. You want her too."

"I don't know what you're talking about." I struggle against his arms.

"Maybe you don't." He releases me and stands, walking out of the room, "...but you will."

Santana is a hit as Frank had expected and her show sells out for months in advance. I am quickly stripped of my duties as Secretary and what few friends I thought I had now shun me in the streets.

Frank's quest to bed Santana is not idle, but for some reason he is taking his time. It reminds me of when he spoke of watching me before my father's death. This penchant for waiting until the perfect moment to get what he wants with certainty.

To that end, he savors her performances, spending his time looking between us. I begin to wonder if for all his deception, he isn't right about what I feel for Santana. I try to keep my adoration from my face, knowing that he longs for it, but at times I can't help it. She's captivating.

I'm embarrassed to admit I didn't even know what he was talking about that evening at dinner, not really. I went to the library the following day and secretly looked up the word 'lesbian'. It gave me a few more words to look up and I walked the library all afternoon in search of historical references. There weren't many. A few things from Greek and Roman times – each one barely a few sentences long, salacious and sinful.

Could I feel that way for her? Did it mean I would go to hell?

The consequences became less and less of interest the more I saw of her. Frank _encouraged_ me to accompany him to the club, sometimes in the day, and I would catch her in rehearsals or walking here or there.

I found myself looking forward to her weekend performances in a way that was almost obsessive. And to know that Santana thought _this way_ of women, moved and sang like she did _for _women, did what those books spoke of _with_ women. It became all I could think about.

I had to hide it of course. Frank saw something in me I didn't see myself, but that didn't mean he owned it. I refused to let him have this. Without the church, I had nothing anymore, nothing but this feeling.

After visiting Santana the first time, I learned just how tight the tabs that Frank kept on me were. I had to bide my time until he left for a weekend on business. I couldn't even trust Walter this time.

I slipped into her dressing room during the show and was only a little entertained by the contrast of the flooded mop closet of that first night to this. It was full of flowers, all different sorts, but mostly red roses. Gifts of stuffed animals and music boxes and other delicate things lined the floor. I put my note under her hair brush, ran my fingers over her silk robe, and left as quickly as I had come.

My sister smiled at me curiously before heading out the door. Her salary afforded her this small apartment where I had asked Santana to meet me.

I wasn't sure she'd come. My behavior was so strange the day I visited her and the closest we had gotten to each other since was during her performances. She flirted with me then, but she flirted with the entire room.

Right on time I hear the knock on the door and quickly open it to let her in. She waves to Hank, who waves back from the driver's seat before taking off.

"Shouldn't he wait?" I ask.

She smiles at me like I'm a small child that just added 2+2 and came up with 7. "Hank can't stay in this neighborhood. He'll swing back by in an hour or so. I assumed that would be enough time for our..."

"Tea. I've made some tea." I lead her into the sitting room where I have set out the decorative tea pot with cups and saucers that I had gotten my sister for Christmas.

Santana is wearing another sweater and skirt combination, this time the sweater is eggplant in color and I can't tell if it, or the canary is the more charming. It's odd to see her dressed casually again. I've only seen her in barely-there costumes for so many weeks. I can imagine her brassiere under the sweater without much difficulty. I blink away the thought.

We sit and I pour her a cup as well as myself.

"It's Earl Grey. I have honey if you'd like or perhaps some sugar."

"Honey would be nice." I hand her the jar and our fingers touch briefly. She smiles at me even though it's become uncomfortable that she doesn't know why she's here.

"I'm sorry I left our last engagement so abruptly. I thought maybe I could make it up to you."

She looks around the place. "Where exactly are we, Quinn?"

"Oh, I apologize. This is my sister's flat. She's at work. I figured it was a little closer to the motel." It is in fact further.

She crosses her legs and my eyes follow the movement. "I'm not staying there any longer. Issues with security." She looks at me hesitantly. "I've moved into a house with a family."

"I see. Is it nearby? Do you like it?"

"I wouldn't describe it as nearby, but it's nice to have home cooked meals and people around. Especially people who don't want something from you aside from rent."

I wonder about the security problem. I remember all those flowers, the scrawled notes attached.

"Well you are a great success! I'm sure people would love to hear you sing all day long."

"That's very kind of you to say."

There's an awkward silence. Santana takes in my sister's youthful interior decorating as she sips her tea before placing the cup on the table and leaning back into her chair to look at me.

"Frank is out of town, and your note..." She looks around the room to include our location. "...is this a secret, Quinn?"

I put my tea down as well, but so quickly that I topple it onto the table. I reach for a napkin, but Santana is already standing and leaning over the table to wipe it up. I look up at her as she finishes and the fall of her hair... I've forgotten what she asked.

She sits back down smiling, but even more curious.

"I'm sorry, what did you ask?"

"I asked if our little tea party here is a secret. It feels like one."

I shy away from her question, lifting bowls and dabbing a napkin beneath them unnecessarily. "_A secret_? No."

"But why couldn't we have had tea at your home then? Frank isn't there."

"Yes, but he...the housemaids...they work for him, not me." I don't know what she does to me, but I keep telling her more than I'd like. I move my hand over a crocheted pillow. "I don't wish for him to know about our becoming friendly."

"So this _is _a secret?"

I'm agitated by her insistance. "Yes, I suppose it is. Frank is overly interested in my comings and goings, particularly when it comes to you."

"He knows you visited me that day?"

"He does, but there's more to it than that."

"How so?"

I pour myself some more tea, taking my time. "Frank is still quite enamoured of you and he seems to think... " I clear my throat. "You'll find this funny, really..." She waits for me to continue, but I'm finding it difficult. "He... it is surely just a rumour but..."

She squints at me, amused. "It's not a rumour."

"I wouldn't speak so quic-"

"I know what it is and it's not a rumour. I'm a lesbian."

I cough on air, quickly grasping at my tea cup and bringing it to my lips. "Oh...well..."

"What is it?"

"Nothing. Nothing." I'm still mystified by the fact that she admits it, so openly. I thought for sure that she would deny it, for privacy if nothing else and that at best, I would see some sign of whether it was true or false in her body language.

"No, something, something."

I gesture to her entire person. "I just...you are so pretty and I... what I mean to say is. I was surprised that he would say something like that about you. I thought it couldn't be true."

She tilts her head in question. "Because you think I'm pretty?"

"No, I mean yes...well... It isn't such a common thing. I saw the bearded lady once at the coun-"

"Did you just say 'the bearded lady'?" Santana laughs loudly and looks around the room. "Does your sister keep any alcohol?"

I shrug off her sarcastic request. "I apologize if I'm not familiar with your affliction, it is just that I have heard it described as a lifestyle for those who cannot attract a man and I wouldn't think that applies to you."

Santana sobers. "_Affliction_? Honey, I'd call it a blessing. Mens' attraction to me or any of the women I spend time with is neither here nor there."

"I didn't mean to offend you."

"Oh, you haven't, but I still don't understand how any of this relates. Do you have some question for me about my love of women that you can't ask when your husband is in the state, Quinn?" Her smile reminds me of the one she wears as she works the audience, but I don't feel charmed. I feel silly.

"No. I'm sorry if I have made you unsure of my intentions. I simply wanted to speak to you without his eyes and ears on us."

"And you needed to clear up that lesbian rumour first and foremost. Well, I am sorry for laughing at your understanding of my preferences and who has them, but lesbians are not bearded women, Quinn. Lesbians can be unattractive, sure, but some look like me and some even look like you."

I don't mistake the compliment or the accusation. She's flirting with me, only it feels so much different in a room with just us two, with words instead of just lingering glances. I feel out of control and I do my best to reign it in.

"I appreciate the further clarification, however unnecessary."

She leans back into her seat once more, changing her tone. "You know I asked about you, after that first night? I wanted to know your story. Walter said you were the victim of unfortunate circumstances once your daddy died. That Frank bought you from your mother."

I look up sharply, hurt by how few words it takes to describe my fate, how transactional the last ten years of misery can sound.

"Walter told me you would have run away by now if it weren't for your little brothers and sisters. That you stayed to give them a better life."

"I did." I'm curt with her and I can feel my walls closing in.

"But Quinn, we're sitting in your grown sister's apartment. When will you get to live a life of your own?"

My fingers tighten around the hem of my skirt, pulling it taut. "I don't think that's any of your business."

"And who I sleep with is any of yours?"

"We're very different people. I can't just sing my way into the next town like you."

"I clearly can't sing my way anywhere or I'd be in Chicago by now." I'm not sure why, but I suddenly wonder if it isn't Chicago, but a person in Chicago that beckons her and I become unreasonably jealous.

"If Chicago is where you want to be, then why are you here?"

She straigthens. All business. "The Fontaine is affording me a unique opportunity to showcase my talents."

"You mean Frank is spending more money than you've ever seen to make you a star. I don't know how you can put up with his bigotry."

"The same way you can I suppose. I do what I have to to get by." It seems I've touched a nerve and while she claims some level of indifference, it's clear she feels anything but.

"Doesn't it hurt you to be called...to be called..."

"A nigger? A jungle cat? A half-breed?" She says without hesitation, words she's clearly heard all her life. "I could go on. Do you want to hear more? Do you want to know if my daddy is injun? If my momma was the descendent of a house nigger, surely master's favorite?"

I sit, silenced.

"What kind of question is that? _Doesn't it hurt? _ Of course it hurts! But you want me to climb under a rock? You want me to hide my talents when I know I'm as good, shit, I know I'm better than these girls? I won't! So people call me names." She refills her cup and I'm sure it's to steady herself. "The only name I care about is on the marquee."

"I've upset you." An apology would sound thin.

Santana puts her tea down and it's like she's flipped a switch.

"There's nothing to be upset about. Like I said, it is what it is."

We sip our tea in silence again. I can see she's thinking. That what she said wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the truth either.

"Is your family from Chicago?" I ask, still ruminating on this idea of someone else.

"No, I'm from Detroit. Just my mother is living there now."

"Oh, I just thought, you wanting to get back there so bad was because..." I take a sip of unwanted tea. "Do you have friends there?"

She smiles wryly, the first smile since my terrible question and I feel a mix of relief and anxiety.

"No, it's just my favorite city. Lot of great musicians there. It's the kind of place where I fit right in."

I wonder if she means musically or in general, but I don't dare ask.

"What about you? Do you have a favorite city?"

"I went with Frank to New York once. I didn't think places like that existed except in the pictures. I guess I'd call it my favorite."

"Not a bad choice." Her eyes flit over me then focus on a painting of an overturned fruit bowl on the wall before she adds. "No, there isn't anyone in Chicago in particular that I need to get back to and I'm finding, for all it's shortcomings, Bartlett does have a few people I'd like to get to know better."

I smile and scratch at the nape of my neck as a blush floods my face.

"Well, I'm glad to hear we're not so bad."

She watches me as the red starts to fade and I busy myself adding more tea to my cup. When I'm finished, she's looking at me seriously once more.

"So, Frank knows that I'm a lesbian?" It didn't seem to bother her earlier, she was prideful even. Perhaps the possible ramifications have set in. She brings her fingers to her lips to contemplate the situation apprehensively.

"He does. Do you...have you told people? He said it was an _industry secret_."

"The terms they come up with in this business." She shakes her head. "I only tell those I care about and I'm very discreet." I nod emphatically in agreement, partially excited that I fall into that category. Perhaps she didn't have much choice though – I did ask her.

She feels the need to clarify. "I'm not ashamed of who I am, Quinn, or who I love. It's just, things could get complicated for me if the wrong people knew the truth."

"I understand."

"I'm not sure you do." Her face is even more drawn with worry. "I've never had a club owner know. He could tell others."

"He won't." I say it confidently like I can make it true, but I'm realizing, perhaps at the same time as her, exactly what kind of predicament we're really in.

Her eyes scan left and right quickly, like she's connecting the dots of our entire conversation.

"You said he is curious about our friendship?" She says the word _friendship_ like it doesn't quite fit.

I meet her eyes and hope that the concern flooding mine is all the indication she needs.

Her brow furrows. "I see." She looks so helpless and I just want to say something to make it better.

"He won't do anything to hurt his bottom line." I had hoped to sound more solid in the assertion, but I can't lie to her about this. I can't let her be around him now that he has something on her without knowing the truth. "I mentioned that he was enamoured of you, Santana, but that doesn't quite describe it. He has set his sights on you."

She sighs deeply. "How long has he known about this?"

"A few weeks I gather." I shamefully raise my eyes. "I'm guessing he told me almost as soon as he could. He insinuated that there is an attraction between us. I believe he wishes to... "I clear my throat of nothing. "...to use this to his advantage."

She mumbles something to herself and I only catch the last few words. "... stupid as he looks."

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing." She picks at the cuticles of her thumbs. "I'm going to kill Tom the next time I see him!"

"I think we're losing sight of the real issue at hand. Frank wants to sleep with you at any cost and now we know he has exactly what he needs to force..." I stumble, my hands shaking again. How I wish I could control that. I stare at their betrayal helplessly, until two more hands join them and squeeze until they still.

I can see it in her eyes, when I look up. The idea flickers, to ask me again, but I simply stare back at her and she knows there is no reason to speak the words. Her hands move away and she settles them back onto her own lap.

"You're really worried about this."

"He is not a man to be trifled with, Santana. If he means to make you his, he will find a way to do it."

Santana stands and walks to the window, standing perpendicular to it in a way that might make it difficult for her to be seen from the outside. I find it odd, but say nothing as she is clearly thinking through all that I have said.

She breaks the silence after several long minutes. "So what would you suggest I do?" She's still looking out the window. Her hands run along the sheer drapes.

I'm not expecting the question. I assumed she would know what to do. I answer on instinct.

"You have to leave Bartlett."

She chuckles. "And have your husband bad mouth me to every club owner I could ever work for?"

"Maybe you don't have to sing?"

It's like I've said she doesn't need to breathe. And even I wonder that I came up with such a preposterous idea. "I don't know. I just know if you stay here, it's only a matter of time."

She's quiet and I stare at her, wishing she'd stop gazing out at my sister's ordinary front lawn and look at me so I wouldn't feel so hopeless. I know it's selfish, but somehow it doesn't feel wrong to want that from her.

She doesn't though. She just keeps looking until suddenly she's moving across the room briskly, reaching for her purse.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"Hank just pulled up and he can't sit for too long without trouble brewing."

I stand too, crowding her space. "But wait, what are you going to do?"

Santana stops to look at me, but doesn't say anything, she just squeezes my hand tightly for a moment before leaning in to kiss my cheek.

She opens the door and is down the steps so much faster than I would think necessary. She looks left and right down the almost empty street before hopping in with Hank.

I find myself running my fingertips over my cheek once more.


End file.
